Tristram Saunders: Shakin’ All Over

Tristram’s ill. Don’t let him serve you food.


I’m ill. Not properly ill. Not meningitis, leprosy or lupus. Not bird-flu, swine-flu, SARS or foot’n’mouth.* It isn’t man-flu. It’s barely even a cold. If anything, what I am experiencing is a tepid.

But I have had this tepid for three whole weeks. And for three weeks, I’ve been getting progressively worse. Each day my throat feels a little closer to a Brillo pad. And as for the mucus, I am beginning to regret this moustache. Moreover, it might soon leave me unemployed (the cold, that is, not the moustache).

You see, I earn my crust at one of St Andrews’ numerous overly-twee cafes. No, it’s not Taste. I’ve never been able to squeeze through the door of Taste, let alone hand in a CV. It’s like an overstuffed holding-pen for Fife’s surplus hipsters. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

Anyway, I work at a café. At this rate, I won’t be working there for long. Picture the scene: swept away on the tides of love, two Bright Young Things have chosen to celebrate their one-year anniversary over a fried brunch (suspend your disbelief for a moment). Let’s call them Kate and Will, shall we? They are perfect. Their love is perfect, and nothing is to distract them from the perfection of this, their perfect day.

Enter stage left: yours truly, wheezing like a Dickensian guttersnipe. As I lope towards their perfect table, there is a tickle at the back of my throat. The cough is coming. Unfortunately, both my hands are occupied with transporting their perfect meals. In a few seconds, I will be at their table. I cannot cough on their food. I must not cough on their food, but – in my feverish delirium – I can’t think of any other options. At the last possible moment, I tilt my head to one side, and cough once, sharply. I scan the plates for tell-tale signs of contamination: they are clean. Huzzah!, I think to myself, They are safe! Amor vincit omnia! Looking up, I notice something unexpected. A gobbet of phlegm the size of a pound coin has attached itself to Will’s perfect forehead.

Their fragile joy is shattered. Kate attempts to hold back her tears, but Will lets his flow freely, sullying his once-perfect cheeks. They exit the café in silence, parting ways at the door. They will never speak to one another again. They do not leave a tip.

This exact scenario happens, on average, twice a day. Business is beginning to suffer, but the not-quite cold remains incurable. I’ve tried everything. I’m on Echinacea, camomile and enough over-the-counter drugs to flummox Hunter S. Thompson. If you have any ideas for how to get rid of this damn thing, please leave them in the comments section below. In the meantime, I’m going back to bed.

 

*Incidentally, I met an undergrad last week who didn’t remember foot’n’mouth disease. I have never felt so old.